


Rift

by airebellah



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Bilbo just wants to be his sugar daddy, Blacksmith Thorin, Cultural Differences, Developing Relationship, Emotionally Constipated Thorin, First Meetings, Flirting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues, Thorin Has Issues, Thorin refuses, older!bilbo, younger!thorin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-05-24 15:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14957240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airebellah/pseuds/airebellah
Summary: Thorin temporarily settles in the Shire to work as a blacksmith. There he meets Bilbo, a middle-aged bachelor who insists on over-paying (“tipping,” according to the insufferable halfling) for his work.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was written because I just really, really needed some sugar daddy!Bilbo…but it turned out to be more like 100k of Thorin refusing to be pampered. We’re dealing with a younger Thorin and an older Bilbo… I have the math written down somewhere (with the changed dates and etc), but that’s all you really need to know.
> 
> Thanks to [tea-blitz](https://tea-blitz.tumblr.com/) ([gloomier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gloomier/pseuds/Gloomier)), for helping me develop this as well as beta-ing. Thanks as well to [mithrildreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mithrildreams/pseuds/mithrildreams%0A) for also beta-ing.

Thorin Oakenshield knew he would despise working in the Shire.

The land could be considered beautiful, with its rolling hills, lush green grass, and undisturbed scenery - if one found beauty in such superficialities, of course. Thorin, however, found the openness deeply unsettling; he longed for the security of underground dwellings. And no, tiny holes dug into the earth were not what he considered _underground._  A few feet horizontally forced into a minuscule hill, supported by thin wooden walls, was no replacement for deep, grand, stone-carved surroundings.

He had yet to be inside a halfling’s home (and it was far down on the list of things the dwarf would ever wish to do), but his mind held no doubt they paled miserably to the magnificence of a mountain home. The warm glow of steadily burning lanterns. The smoothness of carefully carved stones, glimmering veins of gold and silver dancing along the walls -

Thorin violently forced the tormenting thoughts from his mind. Of course this hand-tilled, farm-infested land was incomparable to the rightful home of his people, lost long ago to a Mahal-damned usurpation. The only consequence brought upon by dwelling on it was a deep, searing pain which refused to be lessened by time.

The halflings of this land were strange, fussy, nervous little creatures. When the dwarf had first arrived in their lands, he had asked one of the large-footed beings if they were in need of a blacksmith. The halfling had spluttered unintelligibly before finally running off, tugging his companions with him. It had turned into an aggravating pattern of behaviour; none seemed willing to speak to him, as though he would sooner chop off their heads than give thanks for any assistance.

Finally, he had been approached. The halfling had been shivering with fear as he broke away from his band of companions, who all stood poorly wielding soil-covered gardening tools. The words were hard to make out from such stuttered breaths, but from what Thorin could ascertain, there was a forge in Hobbiton that had been abandoned some years back.

East Thorin continued on, towards Hobbiton, though his compass seemed determined to lead him astray. It was his second one of Mannish make, as useless as the last; he would not make the mistake of wasting precious coin on one again, as defects were clearly prevalent. He had managed to coax directions out of a Shireling at one point, who informed him it was a three-day walk to Hobbiton. Yet it took Thorin five days, his map meaningless amongst the twisting dirt-road turns among the never-ending roaming hills.

In spite of it all, Thorin eventually arrived at the forge. It was clear it had indeed been abandoned long ago, covered in a thick layer of dust and ravaged with spiderwebs. Hungry and weary from his travels, Thorin wished for nothing more than to sit down, pull out some salted meat and hardened bread, and enjoy a small break. But he was losing the daylight, and even the smallest delay meant his family would go without for that much longer. The heavy weight of responsibility had Thorin setting to work immediately, labouring indefatigably until the forge was restored to sparkling cleanliness. By then he was scrubbing an anvil by the light of a fire, the sun having long since set. The air was thick and cloying as the furnace struggled to stay ablaze, purging itself of all the built-up grime.

The cleaning finally completed to his satisfaction, Thorin all but sank to the floor, almost too drained to bother emptying his rucksack. He only ate enough to stop the gnawing ache in his belly before falling into an exhausted slumber.

The next morning, the dwarf awoke with the rising sun, readying his temporary home for business.

 

Work in the Shire did not come as easily as it did in the towns of Men. Men were all too pleased to order the dwarf around, demanding unreasonably early completion and absurdly low prices. But they were easy to barter with; while not quite cowed by Thorin’s threatening veneer, he could work his way to earning begrudging almost-respect.

The halflings, on the other hand, were fearful of the newcomer, refusing to approach the forge at all. Thorin found himself forced to venture out to the market instead, selling his wares like a common grocer. The first day, he learned that weaponry was _not_ the kind of thing to present - while swords and axes were usually his best-selling items, the inhabitants here seemed terrified of them.

As the day slowly progressed, it became clear that the halflings were intentionally avoiding his makeshift stall at all costs. But instead of brooding and disparaging himself as his sister, Dís, complained he was wont to do, Thorin decided to put his time to good use. The halflings were unlike any other creatures Thorin had ever had the displeasure of coming across. But he would force himself to find work here, no matter the cost - even tailoring his work to his clients’ needs. He just had to find out what those needs _were._

Thorin spent the day surreptitiously eyeing the halflings… or as surreptitiously as he could manage, which was really not at all. Of his many skills, he was widely assured subtly was not one. But he was able to establish that the creatures carried no arms, and given their soft, plump forms, it was likely they had no experience with weaponry whatsoever. The dwarf would need to branch out.

Farming seemed to be a large trade. Most of the shops set up were dedicated to food, either colourful vegetables and ripe fruits fresh from the field, or fragrant baked goods. Farming tools and cooking supplies would be a good place to start, then. It was not Thorin’s area of expertise, but he was more than competent.

The dwarf was the last to pack his things later that day, still painfully hopeful someone, anyone, would show an interest in his work. Yet as he returned to the forge, pockets empty, the day did not seem like a total waste; he would begin smithing the most superior tools Hobbiton had ever seen.

 

If halflings could be skilled in one area, it would certainly be gossiping. It seems one’s reputation could be made or destroyed from a single conversation, every minute detail scrutinized and examined, the results spreading like dragonfire.

In many cases, such a thing could prove utterly detrimental. In Thorin’s case, it was - much to his own shock - incredibly beneficial.

Thorin spent long hours working on gardening tools; some he created to be simple and functional, while sturdy and strong for prolonged use. Others he decorated with careful engravings, trying his hand at more fanciful carvings rather than the geometric patterns preferred by his own people.

When he laid the items out at the market, it seemed even his daunting dwarvish frame could not keep curious halflings away. His sales were modest at first, his buyers still unsure - whether of the product or himself, Thorin could not say, though likely a combination of the two. Unsurprisingly, the halflings were greatly impressed. Not only did each return, but they brought their families and friends, all eager to spend their coins. The dwarf was not only commissioned for new items, but also asked to repair and restore old, faulty tools.

It was not long before there was a crowd of halflings before him, offering to pay up front in good faith. Thorin was frankly disgusted by their blind trust, only taking the amounts necessary to purchase any required new material, and agreeing to take the rest upon completion.

He was soon busy at work, gratefully overwhelmed by the outpouring of requests. And he was not restricted to tools any longer; he had many commissions for jewelry, ranging from brooches and necklaces, to hairpins and bracelets. But it was clear the females here would not enjoy the same styles as dwarrowdams, and Thorin had to spend countless hours making new designs to please his clients.

Soon, he would have enough money to send home to his family. The dwarf began to wonder if working in the Shire was not so bad, after all.

 

Thorin was scribbling down three pans for Mrs. Bolger when a throat cleared before him. The dwarf’s writing faltered, obscuring the order with a charcoal smudge as he pinned the newcomer with a carefully neutral gaze.

Before him stood a halfling in a form-fitting blue jacket, quite ostentatious for a simple market trip, in Thorin’s opinion. Yet he could not help but notice the way the colour brought out the other’s sparkling blue-green eyes. The short male’s curls glimmered in the sunlight, copper-gold with the slightest hints of mithril at his temples.

“Pardon me,” the halfling began with the polite, practised greeting of his people. Yet the words were different spoken from him, clipped and only thinly veiling his apparent irritation. “I heard you were the new blacksmith.”

Thorin grunted, turning back to the list of orders. Soon there was an impatient huff, the halfling trying to cover it up with another throat-clearing.

“Excuse me, but was that a _yes,_ by any chance?”

It was Thorin’s turn to sigh aggravatedly, dropping the stick of charcoal before it crumbled in his stiffening grip. “You asked no question,” he pointed out. His sister would have had his hide for speaking to a potential customer in such a way, but working so far from home had some benefits.

The halfling’s mouth opened, index finger rigidly pointed in preparation for a sound counter. But then he blinked, jaw snapping shut as his lips spread into a wry half-smile. “My apologies, but you are quite right,” he said, sounding more amused by Thorin’s semantics than annoyed. “Are you the blacksmith, Master Dwarf?”

“Aye,” Thorin replied, managing to pull his gaze away from the halfling’s damnably sparkling eyes. The dwarf wondered what the creature would look like angry - cheeks flushed, lips pursed, eyes dark and narrowed. He was almost disappointed to have won so easily, itching to anger the creature once more, to provoke such a reaction. Yet before such strange thoughts could take hold, the halfling thankfully (and regretfully) began speaking once more.

“Well Hamfast Gamgee - he’s my gardener, you see - has been endlessly praising the _amazing_ gardening tools he purchased from the new blacksmith. And when you hear such a thing from Hamfast, you know it must be true!” He chuckled, only to cut himself off with an sheepish look. “Well, my point is, my mother’s glory box was dealt quite a blow a few weeks ago - the last time I allow any faunts to run free in my home!”

He spoke quickly, yet he cut himself off repeatedly, as though he was unable to stop himself from revealing too much information. Thorin almost had the impression he was unused to conversation, attempting to tame his lengthy explanation into something short and distant in its politeness.

The halfling had hardly paused to take a breath when he turned to a small cart he had pulled along with himself, retrieving the aforementioned glory box. He held the box tightly to his chest, movements exaggeratedly slow as though he feared the wood would crumble in his hands.

“I think the hinges are broken,” he confessed mournfully, fingers skimming the wrent metal.

Thorin leaned forward, careful to keep his initial examination strictly visual under the owner’s watchful gaze. “Fifty shillings. Come back in three days,” he ordered.

Instead of agreement, the halfling remained silent. When Thorin finally looked up, he noticed how anxious the male appeared.

“Are you _sure_ you can fix this?” he questioned, knuckles whitening as his fingers dug into the wood protectively.

Thorin’s jaw clenched, years of insults and blatant discrimination barely reining in his temper. “Take your business somewhere else,” he growled. Even in this impoverished life, he refused to sacrifice his dignity for work.

“N-No!” the halfling exclaimed, one arm lifting from his precious box to wave around emphatically. “I know you can do it, just - please, understand. This box is worth more than any gold I could give you. That’s why I haven’t allowed anyone else to touch it  - please, just promise me you will take care of it.”

Thorin recognized the desperate, pleading look in the halfling’s eyes. He understood material attachment all too well, the need to hold onto the proof of a past life with all of one’s might.

“I will take care of it,” Thorin vowed solemnly. “You have my word.”

The halfling nodded to himself, seeming relieved. “An extra ten shillings if you can have it ready in two days,” he countered.

Thorin accepted without complaint, though he knew he would not take the extra compensation even if the halfling kept his word. It was an easy job, and it was obvious the client requested his possession back sooner out of worry, rather than greed.

“Name?” Thorin asked as he added the item to his list.

“Oh. goodness me!” the customer exclaimed apologetically, straightening his jacket as though he wished to smooth out any signs he had derailed from a polite, presentable persona. “Bilbo Baggins!”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Thorin  happened to be standing at a basin of water, wiping his sweaty forehead with a dirty cloth when there was an annoying rhythmical knock at the door. It was succeeded immediately by Baggins welcoming himself into the forge, looking disturbingly pristine and clean in the smoky dankness.

Not bothering to correct the hobbit’s presumptuousness, Thorin brought over the pot. Baggins inspected it for hardly a second before smiling in approval. “How much?” he asked, already pulling out a large bag of coins.

Thorin scowled, arms crossing over his chest. Was this part of the game? he wondered. Instead he answered, “It took me no time at all.”

“Well, that’s very nice,” Baggins patronized, adding, “But how much?”

Letting out a deep breath slowly through his nose, Thorin tried to contain his rapidly growing frustration. “It is no charge,” he clarified, explaining, “You overpaid me last time.”

Baggins lips quirked to the side as he considered this. “No,” he concluded. “I paid you what you asked, and then I added a tip.”

“A tip?” Thorin echoed gruffly, annoyed he was not familiar with the term.

“Well yes, I was very pleased with your work, and so I added some extra money.”

“For future work,” the dwarf supplied.

“No,” Baggins insisted. “It’s a  _ tip  _ \- it’s not conditional, it’s similar to… a gift! To show how happy I am with your work.”

“I am not in the habit of accepting charity,” Thorin growled through a clenched jaw. “Nor am I in need of your pity.”

Baggins’ eyes widened, as if truly horrified at the implication. “Master Dwarf, you’re simply not listening to me!” he exclaimed, pointing dangerously close to Thorin’s chest. “A tip is not charity, or pity, it is a sign of a job well done - !”

The hobbit’s voice grew louder as Thorin stormed off, grabbing the bag of leftover coins from his sleeping quarters in the back. He all but threw it into the pot, darkly satisfied as the halfling jumped in surprise. Baggins’ mouth opened, only to close shut at the furious look on Thorin’s face.

He sniffed, straightening his waistcoat before nodding his head. “Good day, then,” he said primly, before stomping out of the forge.

Thorin smirked, allowing his chest to swell with pride at his victory, certainly not feeling at all torn.

 

Apparently he had not won the fight  _ at all, _ something he did not realize until the sun had long since set and Thorin was finally allowing himself to finish for the day. He stepped outside, eyes slipping closed as he breathed in a lungful of fresh air, cool wind drying his sweat-drenched skin.

He was as content as he could be outside a mountain...until he spotted it.

There was a flat, round package sitting right outside the door to his forge, tied with an infuriatingly polite bow. He ripped it open with not a single doubt of who it was from. His mouth watered immediately as a sweet, savoury scent assaulted his nose.

It was… a pie.

He lifted the food item, eyes narrowing as he carefully inspected the golden-brown crust encasing… was that  _ apple? _

Mahal damn him, his stomach began twisting with a painful ache. He had not eaten for hours, and the food, while slightly misshapen and perhaps a little soggy from hours in the sun, was all but  _ begging _ to be eaten.

Baggins was long gone, and it was not as if Thorin knew the way to the small creature’s house - or hill, or hole, whatever they called it here. If it went uneaten, it would simply be a waste. There was no returning it - Thorin could not be sure when the aggravating customer would return, and the sun had already wrought unfortunate damage. Scowling at the offending food, Thorin picked up the pie and carried it inside. He sat down on his thin sleeping mat with a tired grunt, trying not to think of how relieved he was to eat something other than salted meat or watery gruel.

He tore into the soft crust without any ceremony, shovelling the cool, baked apple into his mouth. His lips pulled together as he barely contained a satisfied moan.  _ What sort of wizardry is this? _ he wondered as he quickly scooped up another piece. His teeth gnashed together savagely with each bite, and his glower only darkened as the pastry quickly disappeared.

It was the best damned thing Thorin had ever eaten, and it was already gone.

 

Baggins appeared at market the following week. Thorin did not hide his glower as the hobbit approached, smiling as brightly as if the dwarf welcomed him with open arms.

“Good day, Master Oakenshield!” he called as he approached, vexingly familiar as an old acquaintance. “How have you been?”

Thorin merely grunted in return, unwilling to encourage a rapport with the customer.

“I’ve been jolly good, thank you for asking!” Baggins chirped merrily.

Thorin did not even bother to grunt this time.

“I”ve got some knives for you this time,” the hobbit continued unperturbed, placing a basket on the table.

Thorin frowned, lifting the lid to inspect the dulled  _ kitchen blades. _ “Do you not know how to sharpen a blade?” he asked bitterly.

“Of course!” the hobbit replied hotly. “But I’ve let them go for so long, it’s much easier to simply pay you. So, how much? I’ll pay extra if you can have them done by tomorrow afternoon.”

Eyeing the modest pile, Thorin calculated the cost. Unfortunately, having them done by tomorrow would be no problem at all; business was too slow in the Shire, and kitchen instrument repairs did not earn much to send back home. “Tomorrow,” he agreed, pulling the basket off the table. “Seven shillings.”

Baggins’ fingers tapped against his lips as he considered. “Ten.”

Thorin opened his mouth to retort, only to close his jaw with a sound snap. “Did you just barter to pay  _ more?”  _ he asked incredulously.

“Well!” the hobbit started with a huff. “How do you expect to make a living charging so little? Since I’ve asked for them by tomorrow, you’ll have to make room in between other customers’ orders, and you should be compensated for that!”

Thorin could hardly disagree without revealing his lack of business. “Ten,” he agreed at last.

He loathed Baggins’ victorious nod, the small smile as he politely bid the dwarf farewell clearly hiding a nefarious superiority. He barely stopped himself from throwing the knives down, reigning in his temper in front of potential customers.

As Baggins walked away, a pair of hobbits came into view, eyeing the departing customer with poorly-concealed distaste. As they leaned in, talking far louder than privacy required, Thorin could not help but listen.

“Of course Mad Baggins would be cavorting with that…  _ dwarf!” _

Thorin’s teeth gritted; the she-hobbit spat the word as if Thorin’s entire race was a grave insult. He could see her companion shake his head out of the corner of his eye, apparently aggrieved by the news.

“He’s always been rather queer,” he lamented. “Well, at least since… you know.”

The she-hobbit clung to her companion’s elbow as the two bowed their heads, as though mourning the passing of a close friend. “Such a shame!” she bemoaned as they carried on. “Such a respectable father! You’d never believe…”

As the two strolled out of Thorin’s hearing range, the dwarf realized his fists were painfully clenched. Releasing his hands, he rubbed through his beard, considering the conversation. Clearly he was not the only one who thought Baggins strange, but he was a dwarf; he was always confounded by the ways of other races. Yet he knew, perhaps better than most, not to put any stock into idle gossip.

 

Much to his chagrin, Bilbo Baggins became Thorin’s most regular customer by far.

It would seem, in the Shire, wealth begot peculiarity and the eschewing of social formalities. When Thorin had formally greeted him one day upon arrival at the market, “Well met, Master Baggins” (another of Dís’ most helpful tips: greet customers by name, as much as possible), the halfling’s nose had scrunched up as if in great distaste.

“Bilbo, if you please,” he said. “I’m not really  _ master  _ of anything!”

Thereafter he silently agreed to avoid addressing the customer by name at all, for a first-name basis would be discomfiting to him.

To add to the eccentricity, Bilbo insisted on paying more than the young blacksmith had ever been able to charge elsewhere, and to Thorin’s endless frustration, always left behind some food. He would try to force it back on the hobbit, but Bilbo would walk away, hands raised defiantly. Thorin was tempted more than once to simply throw the food at the hobbit’s head. But he begrudgingly admitted his coin purse was much fuller, thanks in large part to Bilbo’s inane orders. He had brought in several more pots, pans, and utensils before devolving into odd knick-knacks from around his house. Each came with its own mindless story, though why he felt the need to share such personal information, Thorin could not say. A few stories, the dwarf could admit, had him holding back an amused snort. But for the most part, they spoke of the dull existence of an underwhelming, unskilled, unworldly race.

Nevertheless, Bilbo and Thorin were developing a surprisingly tolerable arrangement. The hobbit always bartered to pay  _ more,  _ which Thorin had attempted once to counter by setting a low asking price. Bilbo had unfortunately caught him, more acute than the dwarf had accounted for. But as long as Thorin agreed to an arguably steep price, the hobbit would not try to leave any detestable  _ tips  _ \- baked goods notwithstanding. At least, Thorin felt, food did not bring with it the acidic sting of accepting petty charity.

While this agreement was unspoken, Thorin had assumed it was well understood by both parties. It was a typical evening - rather too warm in the dwarf’s opinion, the air still heated from the remembrance of the sun’s beating rays; but then again, it was always so in this strange, undefended land. Thorin stepped outside his forge for a break after a long day of oiling hinges and smoothing out dents in household wares. Give him a heavy metal or glimmering gems any day, and he would be all the happier for it. But even in the towns of Men he could not oft anticipate such fulfilling work, much less here, where the inhabitants rarely stepped foot outside of their kitchens or gardens.

Even in the growing darkness, his eyes easily caught sight of the small object lying in the grass. He ignored the anticipatory clench of his stomach, practically conditioned like some hapless dog begging for scraps. He frowned as his fingers met smooth wood. It was a small engraved box awaiting him, instead of the usual basket of food. Bulky fingers fumbling with the clasp, he flipped open the lid. He stared at the item inside, initial confusion rapidly giving way to anger. His fingers tightened around the small container, threatening to splinter the wood into pieces as he glared at the ornate gold cloak pin inside.

He should have seen this coming - he had been so stupid, so naive. Perhaps the naysayers among his advisors were right: he was far too young to be trusted with the responsibility of his people. Thorin was young, coming of age barely over two decades ago, and while he had been working to bring his people food ever since they had been displaced by that accursed wyrm, he had most often sought work with others. But they could cover much more land, and hopefully bring in more earnings, by travelling in solitude.

He had come across those with sinister plans before, whether it be trying to cheat the dwarf out of fair wages, or something else entirely. It was nothing new. Yet perhaps it seemed all the more deplorable in that it was unexpected; Thorin had thought Bilbo’s problem was pitying the dwarf, not…  _ propositioning _ him.

Nonetheless.

The hobbit’s true nature had made itself known, and there was only one thing for it: he would have to stand his ground. It might lead to him abandoning Hobbiton, and eventually the Shire altogether. There was nothing for it. He may be many things, and his people may be struggling, but the thought of accepting this  _ gift _ left Thorin’s skin shuddering with disgust.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your lovely comments so far, and the anon on tumblr <3

Thorin charged up the dirt-covered street of Bagshot Row. Had his business here been pleasant, he would have been in a sour mood nonetheless. For it seemed hatred towards Dwarves ran deep in this sleepy town, in spite of Thorin’s small progresses as blacksmith. He had stopped passersby multiple times to ask for directions to the home of one Bilbo Baggins. Each direction was more confusing than the last, sending him on a wild boar chase instead of on his way!

In spite of the halflings’ collective plot, Thorin finally arrived at the top of the hill. It was much later than he had expected, and his patience was already worn thin. He yanked open the gate, heavy footsteps pounding against the stone staircase. He scoffed at the round green door, ignoring the bell in favour of pounding on the wood.

As the door swung open, Thorin took a deep breath in preparation of his rant. The only benefit of taking so long to get here was that it allowed his anger to fester as he plotted his tirade. He had it down verbatim, and his blood was screaming to let it all out.

Only for the dwarf to let out a tiny, pathetic exhale.

For it was  _ Bilbo Baggins _ who started yelling at  _ him. _

“How dare you!” Bilbo exclaimed. “You charge up to my doorstep - that’s right, don’t think I didn’t hear your oliphant stomping! Or the way you ripped open my gate - you’ll be repairing any damages first thing in the morning, I’ll have you know!”

Thorin’s jaw dropped as the irate halfling continued his rant. He even lifted a small, pudgy finger, wagging it at the exiled King as though Thorin were a mere dwarfling again. Thorin found his gaze averting shamefully, awkwardly shuffling from foot to foot as he took his scolding.

“Then you bang on my door,” Bilbo continued, growing steadily red in the face, “As though a fire-breathing dragon was on your tail! What was your intention, to break it down?”

As the halfling paused, Thorin opened his mouth to explain, but it seemed he was only taking a breath.

“And for  _ what _ ?” he demanded. “What in Eru’s name could bring you to my doorstep, after dark, in such a huff?”

The thoroughly dressed down dwarf reached into his pocket, pulled out the lavish pin, and thrust it under the halfling’s nose.

“Ah, I see,” Bilbo murmured simply. He stepped aside, motioning for the dwarf to enter. “Well, come in, then!”

He ambled off before Thorin could even accept or reject, calling a terse “Take off those awful boots!” as he disappeared down the hall. Thorin found himself obeying the command without thought, even politely lining them up against the wall and hanging his cloak on an empty peg.

He foolishly attempted to follow his host, only to get lost in the warren-like confusion of hallways and rooms. The underground house was much bigger than he expected, having only seen it from the outside.

“Master Oakenshield, whatever are you doing in the study?” Bilbo asked, popping his head in the doorway. Thorin blinked dazedly, looking around - there was a wooden desk and chair by a small window covered with papers, and book-crammed shelves lined the walls.

“I do not know,” he replied slowly. “Your home is a maze.”

Bilbo snorted, as if it were the most ludicrous thing he had ever heard. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered as he lead Thorin down the all. “The dining room is this way - why don’t you join me for supper?”

The dwarf frowned at the suspicious invitation. Moments ago Bilbo had delivered a thorough tongue-lashing, and now he wished his unexpected, unwanted guest to stay for a meal?

“I already had dinner,” Thorin replied vaguely.

Bilbo stopped in the doorway of the dining room, motioning for Thorin to go ahead. His nose scrunched up at the dwarf’s remark, the halfling looking utterly confused. “Yes, of course,” he agreed. “It’s time for supper now. Sit down wherever you like; the food is just about ready!”

Instead of heeding his host’s words, Thorin awkwardly stood by the table. He was completely unsure of where to sit - everything was backwards in this thrice-damned hole! His once red-hot anger forgotten, he even contemplated offering to help, but had no idea where the kitchen could even be found. Instead he waited, trying to seem like he was not hopelessly confused when his host returned. This included straightening his back, lifting his chin, and assuming an air of indifference.

“Oh, sit down, please!” Bilbo exclaimed, as though greatly offended to see his guest standing. He put the plates and cutlery he carried on the table before pulling out the chair at the head of the table. Thorin tried to suppress a gratifying reaction from the gesture - the head of the table was a great honour in his culture.

“My thanks,” he murmured as he sat down. Still rather suspicious, he nonetheless deigned to ask, “May I offer my assistance?”

“No, no!” Bilbo said immediately. “You are my guest - I won’t hear of it! Now, do you like ale? I can bring some up from the cellar -”

“Actually, I prefer red wine,” Thorin answered.

“Red wine it is!” Bilbo chirped, already out the door.

The hobbit soon returned with a glass and bottle of wine for Thorin, and a tankard of ale for himself. Uncorking the bottle, he poured a very  _ generous _ amount into Thorin’s glass. The dwarf frowned; he would hardly be able to swirl the glass, it was so full.

“Why don’t you get started on that?” Bilbo asked, sliding the glass over with a wink. “Supper will be served soon!”

Thorin stared at the maroon drink, contemplating the impropriety of drinking before Bilbo was seated. But as he pondered the utter  _ ridiculousness _ of this backward situation, he could not help but take a large gulp.

When Bilbo returned, he carried a large tray covered in assorted plates. Thorin stood, immediately relieving his host of the load, much to Bilbo’s obvious chagrin.

“Honestly,” Bilbo huffed as they both arranged the food. “I appreciate your help, but it is far from necessary.”

“You are welcome,” Thorin grumbled distractedly, taken aback by the amount of food laid before him.

“I’m terribly sorry for the meagre meal,” Bilbo began, his unnecessary apology soon escalating into a ramble. “I’m afraid I didn’t expect any visitors, you see - not that you’re unwanted! Happy to have you, Master Oakenshield. But I don’t have many people over, as it is, so we’ll have to make do.”

Thorin was silent, slowly taking in the long-winded explanation. Finally, he said incredulously, “This is meagre?”

There were fish fillets flanked with lemon slices, roasted potatoes, carrots, and squash, chicken, a plateful of rolls, and a fresh salad - though the last item did not appeal to Thorin’s dwarvish sensibility in the least.

“I’ll have you over for a proper meal,” Bilbo vowed. “I promise, it will be much better than this.”

“I do not know how that is possible,” Thorin commented earnestly.

Bilbo’s brow furrowed as he appraised the table with a critical eye. “There is no need for sarcasm, Master Dwarf,” he replied tersely.

“It was not in jest,” Thorin was quick to defend, though he could not say why the thought of insulting Bilbo made him feel uncomfortable.

“Oh,” Bilbo murmured, cheeks flushing slightly as he smiled pleasantly. “Well, enough of that! Please, help yourself.”

Thorin took a modest serving of each dish - save the salad _ \-  _ refusing to appear as some desperate beggar. Bilbo had no such qualms about his own serving, piling his plate rather high for someone who claimed to have already had dinner.

The meal passed in silence, though it was not as uncomfortable as Thorin had expected. The moment he was finished, he already missed the taste of the delicious, savoury food. But then Bilbo was piling the dwarf’s plate with more, tutting under his breath like some mother hen.

Thorin hesitated to begin, though he started to eat when he saw Bilbo do the same to his own plate. Between the two of them, there was not a piece of food left.

Bilbo sighed contentedly, leaning back in his chair and patting his round belly. Thorin began piling the plates, only for Bilbo to wave him off. “Later, thank you,” was all he said.

The dwarf shifted awkwardly - now that there was no food to occupy himself with eating, he felt the silence much more heavily than before. He took a few more sips of wine; it had been a long time since he had had such a strong drink, and the alcohol hit his system hard. His head felt pleasantly light, shoulders free from the constant stress of his duties. Of course, his tongue was rather loosened as well, and he found himself finally asking the question he had arrived here for in the first place: “Why did you leave that for me?”

Bilbo’s head cocked to the side, the hobbit staring at Thorin as if he were surprised by the question. Licking his lips, he leaned forward. “I suppose you do things differently,” he began vaguely.

The dwarf’s eyes narrowed immediately. “What does that mean?” he asked suspiciously.

Instead of answering, he explained, “All of my life, I’ve been stuck inside the Shire. I’ve always wanted to see what’s out there, in the real world. I don’t know if I ever will - but you have. I want to hear all your stories, your adventures. But I also want to get to know you, Master Oakenshield. If you’d let me, that is.”

“What does that have to do with pin?”

“It’s a small look at what I could give you,” the hobbit said mysteriously.

“For what?” Thorin grunted.

“Companionship,” Bilbo revealed with a small smile.

Thorin snarled, fist slamming on the table as his fears were confirmed. The hobbit jumped, eyes widening in fright. “I may be a lowly dwarven blacksmith in your eyes,” he growled. “But I do not lack honour! I would never sell myself -”

“Sell yourself?” Bilbo exclaimed, expression quickly morphing from fright to anger. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing!”

“Is that not what you seek?” Thorin countered. “A young struggling dwarf, eager to warm your bed in exchange for a few coppers?”

“No!” Bilbo yelled, jumping from his seat and placing his hands on his hips. “And if you are going to use such language, I shall show you the door! Good evening!”

Thorin wanted nothing more to storm out, but his head was spinning from the mixture of confusion and alcohol. Instead he folded his arms over his chest, motioning for the hobbit to sit back down. “Peace, halfling,” he entreated. “Speak your mind, and speak  _ plainly _ I insist, so we may understand each other.”

Bilbo harrumphed, straightening his waistcoat before sitting back down. “If I must say it in plain terms, then I wish to take care of you. I have more money than I know what to do with, and no relatives with whom I wish to share. I am an outsider amongst my own people, seen as entirely unrespectable and quite queer. Perhaps you have heard their name for me - Mad Baggins?”

Thorin looked away, only catching Bilbo’s curt nod out of the corner of his eye.

“So what I am offering, if you will hear me out, is to arrange a mutually-beneficial agreement. You will regale me with tales of your life, and perhaps one day when you leave, you will consider taking me with you.”

“You would leave your own people?” Thorin asked, surprised to hear this.

“I would lead the life I’ve always wanted to, yes. But I understand the wild is dangerous, and I would do well to have a warrior companion.”

“I do not lead an easy life, halfling,” Thorin warned. “It is not one of pleasure and comfort.”

“I understand,” Bilbo said, far too quickly for it to be true.

“I will not take one who can neither fight nor defend for himself,” he continued.

“Teach me, then,” Bilbo countered.

Thorin sighed, contemplating the request. “And there is nothing else you would ask of me?”

“I won’t deny I am attracted to you, though I believe I’ve made this perfectly clear.” For once, his tone and demeanor lacked any sort of teasing. He was completely serious and straight-faced, as if he wasn’t discussing something potentially  _ unsavoury. _ “And if, as our relationship progresses, we are to know each other intimately - well, I’d hardly disagree. But please understand I would not have you do anything outside your comfort, Master Oakenshield. There is no obligation to  _ warm my bed, _ as you so eloquently put it.” Here the halfling’s cheeks heated, hazel eyes dropping as he finally refused to meet Thorin’s gaze.

Thorin took another sip of wine, swishing the fruity drink in his mouth before gulping it down. In the morning he would blame it on the wine, but Thorin found himself saying, “The only thing I will agree to tonight is to ponder your terms.”

Bilbo’s smile widened outrageously given the simple acquiescence, eyes lighting up with a familiar spark. “I can ask no more,” he said with a grin. “Now, how about dessert?”


	4. Chapter 4

Thorin should not have been so surprised to see Bilbo standing in the entrance of the forge, arms full with a covered basket. He tried to banish all thoughts of their dinner a few nights before, thankful for the heat of the forge as his cheeks began to warm.

“Good morning, Master Oakenshield!” Bilbo greeted with a bright smile, back to his cheery self after their rather serious conversation.

“Aye, ‘tis,” Thorin replied carefully. “I pray you do not come bearing more gifts.”  _ Or the demand for a decision.  _ After their dinner three nights before, Bilbo had sent the dwarf home with enough leftovers to last him until today’s breakfast. He was already in the hobbit’s debt more than he could afford. Though it was a debt he resolved to bear without complaint; he had just sent a raven back home to Ered Luin with a coin purse fuller than he had ever before managed.

“I thought we could eat together,” Bilbo explained, motioning to the basket. “When do you take your lunch?”

“I am not in the habit,” he replied tersely.

“Of eating with company, or taking lunch?” Bilbo asked, unfazed.

“Either,” he grunted, turning back to the anvil.

“Thorin Oakenshield!” Baggins exclaimed, almost causing the young dwarf to jump. “You cannot tell me you expect to work all day without filling your belly?”

Thorin blinked, feeling surprisingly chastised. Then he scowled, determined to stand his ground and not be cowed by a creature barely over three feet. “I eat when I rest,” he explained.

“Well, good!” Bilbo replied, confusing the dwarf even further, “Because you will be resting now. Put down that hammer, Master Dwarf, or so help me!”

Thorin was laying the hammer down before he could think to say no.

Bilbo nodded in satisfaction. “Very good, now go wash up.”

Thorin had been in the habit of of defying orders, even when he had been a young dwarfling. He had only ever listened to his parents, grandparents, and sometimes Balin. But now he found himself walking over to the basin of water, feeling oddly satisfied as he washed up as per Bilbo’s command.

 

“I thought we would enjoy a drink at the Green Dragon afterward,” Bilbo offered as he led the dwarf to the so-called ‘perfect spot’ for lunch. 

“The what?” Thorin asked hoarsely, fighting against a sudden dryness in his throat; even after all the years, the simple mention of one of those beasts was tormenting.

The hobbit only rolled his eyes in response, unaware of the dwarf’s turmoil. “Oh, don’t play coy!” As Thorin’s frown only deepened, he elaborated, “It’s the only inn for miles. I know you’re staying there. Don’t worry, I have no plans to harass you.”

Thorin did not respond; clearly, Bilbo thought him more affluent than he was, and that was likely for the best.

“I will have to return to work,” he said instead.

“Ah, right.” The hobbit sighed, sounding terribly disappointed. “I suppose alcohol and swinging around heavy hammers don’t really mix.”

Thorin snorted. “Is that what you think I do?” he asked, tone biting with disdain.

“Oh, I’m sure there’s a bit more to it than that,” Bilbo replied with a wave of his hand.

“A bit,” Thorin echoed sardonically.

The hobbit ignored him, instead letting out a soft, “Oh!” He waved his arms emphatically, exclaiming, “This is perfect!”

He got to work spreading out a large quilt as Thorin scrutinized the patch of grass. It looked like every other chunk of land they had passed on their unnecessarily long stroll. But he slowly lowered himself to a far edge, staring at the contrast of his dirty clothes and grimy, weathered skin against Bilbo’s clean, pale skin and the tightly-stitched fabric of his jacket. He was soon distracted from his increasingly glum thoughts, stiffening at the vast amount of food the hobbit pulled from his basket.

“Are we eating alone?” he asked, sudden fear seizing him.

“Why, of course!” Bilbo exclaimed.

Thorin did not say anything further; he was beginning to think hobbits simply ate alarming quantities of food whenever given the chance. His theory was rather well-supported, given their rotund forms and propensity toward lazing about.

“Is this common?” Thorin asked, finding himself uncomfortable with the sole sound of their chewing as they delved into the meal.

Bilbo took a moment to swallow a rather large mouthful before asking, “What, luncheon?”

“No, your…” Thorin trailed off, cheeks threatening to flush at the mere mention. “Your offer.” He wondered if it were merely a difference between cultures, similar to an old warrior taking on a young apprentice amongst dwarves.

“Hmm…” The hobbit’s round nose as he considered the question. “Not common, no, but not unheard of.”

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to snap at the ridiculously vague answer. “Frowned upon?” he pressed.

“Goodness, no!” Baggins replied immediately. “Most times it is a wealthier Gentlehobbit who is perhaps a tad, ahem,  _ lonely,  _ such as myself. Seeking companionship in another.”

“Have you done this before?” he asked, not entirely sure if he wanted the answer.

“Don’t worry, Master Dwarf,” the hobbit answered with a teasing smile. “You’re my only one.”

Thorin, experienced warrior in spite of his age, blushed rather furiously. Bilbo’s grin only widened, the hobbit leaning in as the dwarf looked away, seeking refuge in his long hair. “That is not what I meant!” he growled, though he refused to elaborate at the hobbit’s pressing.

“You’ve yet to call me by my name,” Bilbo declared apropos of nothing.

Thorin, secretly thankful for the distraction, glanced at him suspiciously. “We are not so familiar.”

“No,” Bilbo assented with a rather aggrieved sigh. “But how can we hope to one day be so, if you refuse to call me by name, and I am forced to call you only by a distant title?” he asked.

“Aye,” he admitted, finding himself not entirely opposed to the idea. “Bilbo.” He tested the name, finding the foreign softness of it on his tongue somewhat pleasant.

Bilbo’s answering smile was even more pleasant, suffusing a warmth throughout his insides like liquor on an empty stomach. “Thorin,” he replied, smoothing down the consonants, lacking the slight roll of the  _ r. _

Thorin thought he had never heard his name spoken more agreeably.

It left him on edge, and perhaps the hobbit was growing accustomed to the dwarf’s mercurial moods, for he shifted back, peacefully watching their surroundings and subtly allowing Thorin space to recollect himself.

 

Clearly having run out of possessions to bring to the forge, Bilbo next commissioned Thorin to fix up his home. Thankfully, it meant he was not angry anymore; he made a little fuss, gave Thorin a pointed look (and a terrible pointed finger), but was quick to admit his property was worn from time, nosy relatives, and reckless faunts which were “no longer allowed anywhere  _ near  _ Bag End, thank you very much! I do not give a single whit to what their parents may say - so help me, Aunt Mirabella!”

Thorin stumbled back toward the dirt path of Bagshot Row, almost entirely certain the sudden lecture the hobbit had launched into was not directed toward him personally, yet still uneasy in the face of it. It was growing clear that Bilbo, despite all his fussy propriety, could give quite the tongue-lashing as he rambled on. Not that he, Thorin II Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, was scared of a wee little halfling.

No, that would be a disgrace to his great ancestors.

Dísplaced though his people may be, he was still the rightful heir to the kingdom of Erebor. An important part of politics, he had been taught before the siege of his home, was diplomacy. And it was diplomacy that had him mutely watching the hobbit’s tirade, hammer dangling from his slack grip as Bilbo wielded simple air with grand, threatening gestures.

“Well!” he finally huffed, apparently having exhausted his seemingly endless store of vexation toward his relatives. “I suppose you ought to… get to it.” Nothing but the sound of strangely large, strangely hairy feet remained as Bilbo turned around and stomped back inside.

 

His first tasks were, predictably, to repair the hobbit’s fence, walkway, and front door. Thorin himself had not caused any real to anything; he may have been irate their last meeting, but he knew well how to rein in his rage to verbal assaults only, not physical ones. He was able to work in peace for a few hours before his customer interrupted.

“Would you like some tea?” Bilbo asked as he stood in the open doorway. The tray in his arms, holding a teapot, mugs, and an array of biscuits, insisted it was not really a question.

Thorin looked up from the mailbox before which he crouched, dragging his forearm against his sweaty brow. “I am working.”

“It’s afternoon tea,” Bilbo said. He had a way of always sounding positively affronted by Thorin’s responses. “You cannot work through afternoon tea!”

“Do you not wish for your mailbox to close properly?” he countered.

“Well, of course,” Bilbo huffed.  _ “After _ you have joined me on this lovely bench for some tea.”

Thorin’s bare amusement was quickly passing to vexation. “I do not have time for meaningless breaks.”

“I am paying you by the day,” Bilbo insisted sweetly. “For your excellent work, Thorin, and I am in no rush.”

Now Thorin did not bother to hide a scowl. “We did not agree on such terms,” he said hotly, standing from the mailbox as his hand throttled the hammer in his grip.

Bilbo stepped down from the doorway to the bench, putting the tray down for - seemingly - the sole purpose of placing his arms censoriously on his hips.

“Honestly, must everything be a struggle with you?” His eyes widened in aggravation, as though  _ Thorin _ were the irrational one here. “I wish to pay you by the day, so that you may take the time these tasks require!”

“Do you think I lack such honour,” Thorin growled as he stormed towards the hobbit, half-thankful the gate was already open, lest he truly damaged it now. “That I would sacrifice quality for speed, sake of coin?”

Bilbo opened his mouth, only to sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face wearily. “Thorin, please. Just humour me and sit. I will explain.”

In his anger, Thorin had stalked up the steps and now stood before the bench. He could not deny Bilbo’s tired, pleading gaze, and begrudgingly sat down.

“You know, you’re not the only person in my employ,” Bilbo explained as he poured a mugful and handed it to the dwarf.

Thorin accepted, though he did not take a sip. Instead, he muttered tersely, “I am sure your wealth means you can hire many. What of it?”

“Take my gardener, Hamfast,” Bilbo continued calmly. “I do not think I’ve met a single hobbit who does not love plantlife, yet for Hamfast it is a true passion. If he did not have so many faunts to feed, I daresay he would spend his days gardening for free!”

“And you believe I hold this great passion for oiling hinges and straightening fences?”

“Thorin!” Bilbo looked over, but he might have noticed the lack of heat and perhaps the slightest, self-deprecating curve of Thorin’s lips. For he snorted softly, and gave the dwarf a soft elbow in the arm. “I pay him by the day, not by task. I know if I were to set a certain price for trimming the rose bushes, and another for wrenching out weeds, it would make no difference; he would not hasten his work in order to finish more tasks and be paid more. But doing so brings a relief to me, knowing he can work at a pleasing pace without threat of financial repercussion.

“And that, in truth, is what I would like for you, Thorin. I understand you do not find comfort in being given money without earning it, and that is a boundary I will not cross. But if you never pause, how am I to get to know you?”

Thorin stared at the carefully painted mug in his hand. The handle was only large enough for two fingers to slip through, whereas Bilbo could comfortably hold it with four. He did not know if he  _ wanted _ such breaks, if they were for the sole purpose of Bilbo understanding him better. But he also found his tongue unable to say no.

Picking up on the silence, Bilbo broke in, “I’m getting rather ahead of myself, aren’t I? Forgive me if I make you uncomfortable; many years alone have left me rather out of practice in social customs. I shall tell you of myself first, hmm?”

Thorin silently shrugged, finally taking a sip of tea. It was lukewarm now, and he could not help but think the muted sweetness would have settled in his stomach much more pleasantly had he drunk it warm.

“Of course, you already know I am a wealthy bachelor,” Bilbo murmured. “My parents died shortly after I came of age, and I never had any siblings. So I inherited Bag End, to some of my greedier relatives’ displeasure, plus the properties my father leased to tenants.”

“Bag End is the name of your home?” Thorin asked, resolutely ignoring the encouraging smile Bilbo sent his way, as if he were a tutor encouraging a reclusive pupil.

“Smial, yes,” he answered.

“Do all hobbits feel the need to name their homes?” Thorin ribbed.

“No.” Bilbo chuckled, wrapping a few biscuits in a cloth and passing them to the dwarf. “But my father had it built for my mother, and he felt it deserved a name. I’m afraid if you have a problem, you won’t be getting an answer from him.”

 

Thorin split his time between working at the forge, selling his wares at the market, and working on Bilbo’s home. There was nothing that required a blacksmith necessarily, but his people needed money; he was not too proud to tighten door knobs and sand shelves.

There were fleeting moments in which Thorin even felt content in the welcoming smial, and in BIlbo’s intermittent presence.

The hobbit was strict on breaks, and was schooled in the hobbitish practice of seven daily meals. Thorin was often present for at least three of them, sometimes four, and was lectured into resting for each one. They would sit together in the living room, or outside to enjoy a cool breeze.

“Thorin, may I ask how old you are?” Bilbo asked one afternoon after swallowing a mouthful of freshly baked pie.

Thorin gently replaced the fork he had subtly been sucking the flavour from, privately mourning the delicious piece he had finished all too quickly. But perhaps his gaze had lingered too long, for Bilbo scooped another hearty slice onto the dwarf’s plate.

“I am ninety-eight.”

“Goodness gracious!” Bilbo exclaimed, furred toes wriggling excitedly. “How long do dwarves live, then?”

“A healthy dwarf may live to two hundred and fifty,” Thorin said. “Those in my family line have been known to experience some longevity, however. Up to three hundred years of age.”

“Amazing,” Bilbo murmured, stroking his beardless chin. He turned then to his hearth, lips quirking to the side. “Ah, are you considered… quite young then?”

Thorin pondered the question a moment. “I came of age twenty-one years ago,” he explained. “No. I have not been considered ‘quite young’ for a long time.”

He did not say his first battle had been at twenty-four, a futile attempt against a dragon. That he had spent years helping his father lead their homeless people, when his grandfather wanted to give up. Or that he had become a true warrior in the Battle of Azanulbizar at age fifty-three. That had managed to slay the Defiler only after his grandfather and brother had fallen, and his father gone missing.

Bilbo seemed relieved by his response, shooting Thorin a sly smile. “We hobbits tend to live to one hundred, though my grandfather Old Took lived to the ripe old age of one hundred and thirty! Why don’t you guess my age, darling?”

Thorin opened his mouth to reply, before his neck flushed with heat. “What… did you just call me?”

Bilbo grinned cheekily, the incorrigible little pest he was. “Nothing!”

Thorin gave the best scowl possible through his visibly spreading blush. “Certainly well over fifty,” he guessed after a pause to collect himself.

“I beg your pardon!” Bilbo gasped, teacup clattering against its saucer as he put it down rather vehemently.  _ “Well over _ my behind! I am hardly a day over fifty-three, thank you!”

“Apologies,” Thorin grumbled.

He studied Bilbo, eyes tracking his golden curls streaked with the slightest silver, the crinkles around his eyes, his tightly pressed lips. There was a small crease between his brows, as the hobbit gazed into his cold tea. His nose twitched before he captured a lip in his teeth, chewing pensively.

“I meant no offense,” Thorin blurted out. Bilbo looked up, head cocking to the side quizzically. “I did not mean to say you look old.”

Bilbo waved dismissively. “I’m quite aware I’m not in the prime of my youth anymore,” he said before shooting Thorin a sly smile. “I suppose it makes me feel young, being in the company of such a young, dashing dwarf.”

Thorin did not know what to say in response; it was an annoyingly common happening with this hobbit. He went with his natural reaction to social discomfort, which was to grunt and look away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Note: Thorin and Roac speak in Khuzdul to each other, even though the dialogue is written in English. When I originally wrote this, I thought (mistakenly, for whatever reason) that only the dwarves could speak with ravens, but canonoically the ravens of Erebor spoke Westron. Anyway, I just left it as is, forgive me!)

“Dear, me!”

Mister Burrows almost dropped the spade Thorin had just handed him as a loud cawing came from the sky. As Thorin’s gaze lifted to the apatite-blue sky, he felt a genuine smile spread across his face.

Mister Burrows, on the other hand, clutched the tool to his chest as he nervously stepped toward the forge he had refused to enter moments ago.

“Durinu-me turg!” Thorin yelled, not noticing the hobbit’s horrified expression as he began waving to his old friend. “Roac!”

The great bird spread his wings, head downcast as he soon began his descent. Lifting an arm, Thorin chuckled as a whoosh of cool air blew through his sweat-tinged scalp.

“Ai-ast **û** , uzbad,” Roac greeted with a respectful bow of his head. Then he immediately demanded, “Ablâg!”

Thorin rolled his eyes. “You have yet to deliver the message, yet you are already demanding food?” He added a mutter under his breath in Westron: “Perhaps you are not a raven at all, but a hobbit.” Roac huffed as his shiny, round eyes narrowed in perceived insult.

Remembering his customer, Thorin turned back to his customer. “Apologies, Mister Burrows,” he began.

“Y-You’re talking to a...bird?” the elderly hobbit sputtered.

“This is no ordinary bird,” Thorin remanded with a proud lift of his chin. He would divulge no further information to another race, however.

As it turned out, Mister Burrows did not have quite the stomach anyway; he stammered a quick thanks before hurrying away.

Thorin sighed, rubbing a hand through his clipped beard. He had been making so much progress with the hobbits. Alas, it could not be helped, and he turned back to his guest. “I have some food inside.”

Roac chirped happily, pushing some loose strands back from Thorin’s shoulder before hopping up. Inside, they settled at Thorin’s small, makeshift dining table and enjoyed a small meal of day-old bread, hard cheese, and salted meat.

“What news do you bring from Ered Luin and the uzbadnâtha?” Thorin pressed.

“It is good news,” Roac explained much to Thorin’s relief. “The Lady Dís reports Mahal has once again shone down upon the Line of Durin. You have sent over more coin than they have seen for many seasons.”

“They are well-off?” Thorin asked, almost not daring to believe.

Roac’s smooth head bobbed up and down. “The Princess has had enough to feed your family as well as some of the struggling families with young dwarflings. She says if this blessing lasts, the winter will not be such a harsh one.”

Thorin’s head dropped into his palms. He was so overtaken with relief, he could feel his arms begin to tremble. “This is...” he trailed off, forced to clear his throat. “Happy news, indeed.”

Roac chirped in agreement.

“Tell my sister I shall stay in the Shire until this prosperity runs out,” he ordered after a prolonged moment. “It may mean through the winter, as well.”

He scooped up a few chunks of salted meat and they made their way outside once more. As Roac picked away at the food, Thorin grinned. “I have missed you, my friend.”

“I’ve missed the food,” Roac replied between heavy swallows.

Ignoring the quip, Thorin lifted the bird to eye-level, gently brushing his forehead against Roac’s smooth, ebony feathers.

“Erm, Thorin?”

Pulling away, Thorin did not bother to hide his smile as his eyes landed on Bilbo. The hobbit frowned, fingers twisting together as he leaned forward. “Is that… a raven?” he asked.

“Bilbo Baggins, meet Master Roac of Ered Luin,” Thorin introduced. Roac rather ignored Thorin’s dramatic flare, barely glancing up as he continued to eat. “Can you make one good impression upon these people?” the dwarf grumbled.

“Does it carry a letter?” Bilbo asked, stepping closer.

Oft times Thorin was thankful the ravens did not speak Westron. Roac took quickly to offense.

“No,” Thorin replied.  _ “He  _ speaks my language.”

Bilbo’s brows shot up, abandoning his respectful distance to sidle up right next to Thorin. “You mean you can speak to each other?” he asked excitedly.

“What does it want?” Roac griped, pinning Bilbo with a glare before picking at his feathers.

“He wants to hear you speak,” Thorin murmured back, giving the bird a little scratch under the chin. “I’ll throw in another piece of bread.”

“Meat, and ye’ve got a deal,” Roac agreed.

“Oh!” Bilbo exclaimed, clasping his hands before his mouth. “May I touch - him?”

“Here…” Thorin grasped Bilbo’s hand, trying to ignore the way the hobbit’s fingers immediately curled around his as he lifted up Bilbo’s arm. Slipping back into Khuzdul, he hissed, “Be nice!”

With plenty of grumbles and a few promises of extra food, Roac waddled over to Bilbo’s arm. The smile that spread across Bilbo’s lips lit up his entire face. Thorin found himself captivated as Bilbo’s eyes carefully tracked every little detail of the raven, his cheeks flushing with excitement. Thorin could honestly say he had never seen a more beautiful creature. He had seen Bilbo smile, laugh, but this - this was pure joy, and it took years off the hobbit’s face. 

Thinking of how Mister Burrows had reacted - how Thorin believed most, if not all, hobbits would react - he could truly understand how unique Bilbo was amongst his own kind. Isolated, even. Now more than ever, Thorin could imagine Bilbo as a travelling companion outside the Shire. He had such love for things outside his own awareness, more so than most dwarves even, Thorin included.

“Bilbo…” Thorin murmured softly, truly captivated as he stepped toward the hobbit.

Bilbo was just dragging his eyes away from the bird resting on his arm when Roac inevitably interrupted. “Where’s my food?” he cawed impatiently.

Bilbo’s green-blue eyes gazed up at Thorin imploringly. “What’s he saying?” he asked.

“He wants more food,” Thorin replied, staring down at Bilbo with a soft smile.

“Oh! Well I have just the thing for you, Master Raven!”

“Roac,” Thorin supplied.

“Right, Master Ro- um.” Bilbo flushed at his pronunciation. “Master Roac.” It came out like a half-aborted cough. Thorin’s chuckle’s earned him a quick glare before the hobbit straightened his shoulders into his  _ perfectly respectable  _ posture. “Please let your beautiful guest know I had come to invite you for dinner, and that he is more than welcome.”

As Thorin relayed the message, he could not tell if it was the promise of food or Bilbo’s compliment that pleased Roac more. Either way, he was positively preening, feathers ruffling as he hopped and turned on Bilbo’s arm.

“That would be a yes, by the way,” Thorin explained.

Bilbo chuckled, gently running a finger down the bird’s back. “I quite imagined.”

 

“You seem very happy today, Thorin,” Bilbo remarked as they kept a leisurely pace to Bag End. Roac soared above them, often yelling down at Thorin to hurry up before flying away. Bilbo had kept his eyes on the bird so often he had tripped more than once, and Thorin could not deny grasping Bilbo’s hand, even for only a moment to keep him from falling, had felt right. No, tonight he could not deny himself.

“Roac has brought me glad tidings,” he explained.

“How lovely,” Bilbo said, and he did not press any further. As they walked along the dirt path, Bilbo reached forward, fingers curling into the fabric at Thorin’s sleeve. For once Thorin did not hesitate at the contact; he crooked his elbow, allowing Bilbo’s hand to rest on it fully.

Bilbo did not remove his hand until they were at Bag End’s gate, at which point he turned to Thorin and Roac, who had settled upon the dwarf’s shoulder.

“I just have a few things to prepare, but it’s such a beautiful evening,” Bilbo said, glancing at the sky. “We won’t have many more of these - should we eat outside?”

“I will help,” Thorin said, starting up the stone steps.

“Oh, but what about Roac?” Bilbo asked, chewing his lip as he glanced at the bird.

“Peace, Bilbo,” Thorin assured. “He has travelled a great many distances. He can stand a few minutes alone.”

Thorin did not help with the food-making so much as carrying the dishes when ready. He was happy to see it was not an extravagant meal; most appeared to be leftovers reheated on the stove, in addition to fresh bread and an assortment of vegetables the host would be eating alone.

They settled outside in what Bilbo liked to call  _ picnic-style,  _ along the grass with a thin blanket. Between his love of food and his new friend, Bilbo did not say much. He delighted in feeding Roac out of his hand (he had brought a third plate, but soon abandoned hopes of it being used), laughing at every peck. Thorin was content to simply watch, enjoying the meal, chuckling at his companions’ antics, and revelling in his eased burden. He still had hard work ahead of him; he would never be content until Ered Luin prospered and no dwarf under his rule went hungry. But it felt like a small part of his duty had been fulfilled, and perhaps with it came the opportunity to enjoy himself a little more.

He was no fool; he knew he had Bilbo Baggins to thank. And if spending a night with Thorin and a raven of Ered Luin would make Bilbo happy, that was his duty for this night.

Once the food disappeared, Bilbo pardoned himself before stretching out in the grass. Thorin soon joined him, rolling onto his side to face the hobbit. Roac, whom Thorin could never remember finding an end to his appetite - even when Erebor was at its greatest glory - nestled in the grass, barely even summoning the energy to clean his feathers.

Thorin and Bilbo eventually struggled to their feet and cleared up the dishes, depositing them in Bilbo’s kitchen to be washed later. Together they returned outside, plopping down on Bilbo’s bench to enjoy a smoke.

With his head distantly buzzing from the pipeweed, Thorin turned to Bilbo. Bilbo stared back with a slight frown, always and completely unaware of his effect. His effect on Thorin, and now, his effect on Thorin’s family and people.

“You have done more than you will ever know,” Thorin told him solemnly.

Bilbo’s mouth opened, likely with some silly quip or at least a request for an explanation. Before he could vocalize whatever it was going to be, Thorin leaned over and pressed his lips to Bilbo’s. It was an action he had seen across many races, and belatedly he hoped it was something done amongst hobbits as well.

He pulled away after a moment, not exactly sure what he was doing, before pressing his lips to Bilbo’s again. This time sparked a reaction in the hobbit, whose mouth slightly parted and closed against Thorin’s again, and again, and again.

Then Bilbo’s eyes flew open and he pulled away. “Why are you kissing me?” he asked softly.

“I must thank you,” Thorin replied.

“No, no. Thorin, you don’t need to thank me,” Bilbo hurriedly explained. “Certainly not like that! Haven’t I explained this to you? I would like very much to kiss you, I’ll be honest. But not like this. We kiss each other - hobbits, I mean - out of love, or affection, or at the very least desire! Not because one party feels they owe the other.”

Thorin sighed, turning away to look at the rolling hills before him. Bilbo’s words normally would have relieved him, and yet… “I do not wish to have a debt hanging over me.”

“Well, you…” Bilbo’s lips quirked to the side as he thought. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind knowing more about Roac.”

“In repayment of my debt?”

“I’m not even sure what debt you’re talking about,” Bilbo said with a roll of his eyes, playfully nudging Thorin’s side. “Knowing you, it’s probably all in your head,” he muttered.

Thorin decided to let that slight go unchallenged - tonight, only.

“If it has to do with money, or food, I care for neither of those things. But whatever it is, I will happily exchange it for information.”

Thorin grunted in acquiescence.

“Right, well… Are there many of them?”

They talked late into the night, laying in the grass like idle dwarflings. Eventually both stood and stretched and ambled to the bench, drawing on their pipes in companionable silence.

Bilbo blew a few smoke rings, chin lifting proudly as they floated down the road with the wind. Thorin let him enjoy it for only a moment before giving in to the urge to send a much larger ring chasing after each of Bilbo’s, popping them as it went.

“Well!” Bilbo huffed indignantly before his scowl fell away to a smile. “Now how did you do that?”

The dwarf only smirked. ”Where should I send the next?” he asked as he took in a drag.

Bilbo licked his lips as he looked around. “I hardly see how you could send it to my chimney!” he said, smiling triumphantly, for it was upwind.

Thorin let the smoke settle in his throat before pursing his lips and pushing it out. The ring wafted toward the chimney with ease, hovering above it for a moment - prompting Bilbo to grumble, “There’s no need to rub it in,”  _ \-  _ before fading into the air.

Even after they tapped out the ash of their bowls and tucked their pipes away, neither made a move to leave. Bilbo kept him quite occupied with an unending stream of questions, though Thorin was always careful to leave out any mentions of Erebor. The questions stopped at last, and Bilbo stretched his arm behind Thorin’s back. It was not long after that Thorin found his head resting on Bilbo’s shoulder, wondering why he was struggling so hard to keep his eyes open instead of succumbing to sweet sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone reading this, wish me luck on my exam~
> 
> One more chapter to go :0

Thorin awoke insultingly early, even for him, thanks to this bird-infested, stoneless land.

With only the first two decades of his life spent in security, Thorin was normally aware of his surroundings and fully energized immediately upon waking. Yet this morning his senses came to him slowly; he was aware of softness beneath his head, and a fresh scent that filled his nose. Faintly of flowers, and dough.

The night's events trickled back. Even when he became aware of his head resting in Bilbo’s lap, he found himself unwilling to part from his hobbit pillow. Bilbo, too, seemed content with their positions.

"Didn't wake you, did I?" he whispered as Thorin rubbed his eyes.

"No."

He lifted a hand, rubbing the fabric of Bilbo's waistcoat between his fingers. It was the hobbit’s clothes that gave the scent, a freshness that Thorin's clothes could never attain, no matter how long he washed them in the river. It was silky, too; a softness that fit the comfortable, soft creature perfectly.

"Are you cold?" Thorin asked, finally forcing his gaze up to the hobbit’s face.

"No, no," Bilbo replied immediately, despite the slightly pink tinge to his cheeks and the tip of his nose.

Thorin half sat-up, ignoring Bilbo's protests as he pulled off his fur-lined coat and shoved it around Bilbo's frame. Then he lay back down, not entirely certain why - he should be on his way to the forge, not cuddling up to the hobbit like some dwarfling! But such thoughts fled his mind as Bilbo reached down, stroking the back of his fingers against Thorin's cheek.

As the hobbit’s fingers slipped toward his scalp, Thorin grumbled, "Not my hair."

"May I look at your ear?" Bilbo asked, perhaps one of his oddest requests yet. Thorin silently pushed his loose hair back, leaving his skin exposed to the cool morning air. A single finger dragged behind the shell of his ear before Bilbo’s fingers rubbed against its rounded top.

"So strange," he murmured.

"To you," Thorin said.

Bilbo hummed in agreement. "Normal is rather subjective," he whispered, more to himself than his companion. "Is it sensitive?"

"Not so much."

Bilbo devoted minutes to Thorin's ear, apparently fascinated not only by its shape by also its lack of sensitivity. All the while, he carefully avoided the hair braided tightly before it. Eventually he moved back to Thorin's face, fingers rubbing his forehead, brushing through his thick brows, dipping along his long nose.

"Has anyone told you, Thorin," Bilbo asked as his hand rested on the dwarf’s cheek, "How absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful you are?"

Thorin's skin lit up like a forge as he tried to turn away.

"No," Bilbo said, hand pressing down on the dwarf’s burning cheek in what would have been a feeble attempt to keep him from moving. "Don't - I love it."

"Would my Amad count?" he asked drily.

"Your what?"

"My mother," he said.

Bilbo's stomach shook with the force of his laughter. "If only!" he exclaimed. "If a mother’s compliments counted, I would be both the most remarkable hobbit in all the Shire, and also a completely normal one. Depending on which advice she was giving that day, Eru bless her."

"If you were a completely normal hobbit," Thorin began, shifting onto his back and looking up at Bilbo with a teasing smile. "Life would be rather different."

"Oh, much worse, of course," Bilbo replied.

Thorin snorted, though he did not disagree. "Aye."

They watched the sunrise together. Even Thorin could admit the beauty of a cloudless sky painted as though in citrine and ruby **,** the sun's heat beginning to warm the green land.

Bilbo leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to Thorin's bearded cheek. As he pulled away, his face hovered inches above Thorin's. "Is that alright?"

Thorin's gaze slipped to Bilbo's lips. He thought, in that moment, he could have kissed Bilbo again... He thought of Bilbo's words last night, that hobbits kissed out of not only love but desire. It was a foreign feeling to him, and as he watched Bilbo lick his lips nervously, the dwarf wondered if the answering hollowness in his belly was desire.

He barely managed to drag his eyes from the hobbit’s suddenly tempting lips. His voice was rough and cracked, and he had to clear his throat. “Yes.”

With most of his life spent toiling away for his people, taking any jobs that earned a few scraps of silver, intimacy outside of his family was unknown. He knew what it was, to be with another. More than once he had been propositioned by men, men with the acrid stench of overindulgence, cornering him in a dark street or in a temporary forge. Not even at his people's worst had he been tempted to accept; and over the years, he had found the idea rather off-putting. He could not see past desperate humans, dirty and clawing at one another, seeking to satisfy their carnal, bodily desires.

He thought with Bilbo, things may be different. Bilbo, who cared for him and called him beautiful. He could not see the hobbit pushing him down and taking his pleasure. He rather thought it would be like the kiss Bilbo had pressed to his cheek: gentle, and welcome.

"What are you thinking about, silly dwarf?" Bilbo teased, fingers pinching Thorin's cheek.

"My time in the villages of men," Thorin answered honestly, gaze lifting to Bilbo's narrowed eyes. "How different it is here."

"Much better, I'm sure," Bilbo replied with a teasing smile.

"Incomparable," Thorin murmured before pulling himself up.

"I believe it's quite time for first breakfast!" Bilbo slid from the bench. "I'll not be taking no for an answer, Thorin Oakenshield!" he warned, finger wagging, as he ventured back inside the smial.

"Then I shall stay," Thorin said, cutting off into a low groan as he stretched before following his host.

Bilbo, pausing in the doorway, reached up to stroke Thorin's cheek. "Good lad."

 

The more Thorin thought of how inexperienced and vulnerable Bilbo was, the more uncomfortable it made him. When Bilbo had commissioned a sword from him, Thorin’s instinct was an adamant refusal. But the hobbit made it no secret he wished to leave the borders of his land and travel. Even Bree could be dangerous, in the dwarf’s experience, and no amount of tales would prepare such a gentle creature for the wilds.

And so he relented, returning to Bag End a few weeks later, sheathed sword wrapped in his palms.

“Thorin, it’s gorgeous!” Bilbo exclaimed when he first laid his wide eyes upon the weapon. He eagerly examining the miniature sword, hardly more than a letter-opener in the dwarf’s capable hands.

Thorin’s jaw clenched, physically holding back an incensed retort. “Gorgeous?” he growled, dark tone startling the halfling. Of course it was pleasing to the eye - he was not some Man, forging for the sake of practicality and nothing more; nay, forging was an art among his people, one which filled him with immense pride to have taken up.

His vexation with the hobbit’s response did not come from inaccuracy; it was a fine blade, and while perhaps Thorin would not use the word _gorgeous_ to describe it, it was beautifully wrought. No, it came from the knowledge that Bilbo was so clearly inept, so _clueless,_ yet held the irritating presumptuous of the upper-class that he inherently _deserved_ anything he wanted. He did not _deserve_ this blade, this magnificent steel with which he would sooner eviscerate himself with than wield correctly.

But the hobbit had paid him handsomely for it, had put food on the table not only for Dís and her beloved sons, but provided money with which his people could hope to rebuild themselves. He had a responsibility now, to teach Bilbo how to correctly handle this item, and he would ensure the hobbit had the proper appreciation for such a deadly weapon.

“This blade could slice into your bowels as smoothly as you slice your warm butter.”

Bilbo’s hand, stretching towards the hilt, suddenly stopped. Green-blue eyes fixed on Thorin’s darkened expression, enraptured. In truth, Thorin had dulled the blades - it did not ensure safety, not at all, but it could lessen the severity of wounds. Bilbo would do better to not know this.

“Do not think that flinging around a block of wood as a whelp has prepared you for this,” he warned. Bilbo’s lips parted, nose scrunching up slightly - all telltale warning signs of indignation. But he smothered it down, to Thorin’s small approval, and instead gave a sharp nod.

“The blade will not be unsheathed from its scabbard until I deem you ready. You will not practice unless I am here. I will show you how to oil and whet the blade, then you will maintain it yourself.”

“Yes, Master Dwarf,” Bilbo agreed solemnly. The respectful title had the young blacksmith flushing; he had been called so before, by Bilbo as well, yet it seemed to take on a new depth of meaning now.

 

Training an inexperienced, _soft_ creature in the art of the sword tried Thorin’s patience. Very much. He was often invoking Mahal, and there was no mistaking his strings of grumbled Khuzdul curses. But Bilbo refused to give up; it was admirable.

There was another curse on the tip of his tongue as he turned back from showing Bilbo how to pivot. _Attempting_ to show him, at least; Bilbo gripped the hilt of his sword firmly, but the weapon was still sheathed at his side as he stared blankly, teeth sunken into his bottom lip. Thorin glanced down at his torso and back to Bilbo’s clearly drawn gaze. His tunic was soiled, but surely no worse than Bilbo was used to.

“Bilbo,” he grunted uncomfortably. “Why do you stare?”

“Sorry!” Bilbo yelped, dragging his eyes back to the dwarf’s quickly heating face as if it were a physical struggle. “It’s just, all this -” he waved at Thorin vaguely. “It’s quite distracting.”

Thorin frowned, glancing down at his ragged, sweaty tunic and dirty trousers. “What?”

The hobbit rolled his eyes as if it should all be terribly obvious. “I don’t want to make you _uncomfortable,_ it’s just… you get all sweaty, and your tunic clings to y-your, er, _muscles,_ and Eru knows that’s more than enough, but then you go and tie your hair back - well, it’s all rather distracting!”

“You find me… pleasing to look at?” he ventured, wincing with regret the moment he said it.

Bilbo threw his hands in the air quite theatrically as he cried, “Gods above, yes! Have I not made that abundantly clear since we met?”

Thorin turned away as he mulled over this. In the back of his mind, he had always thought Bilbo merely driven by loneliness and a desire for someone exotic, outside his race. Thorin was by no means attractive by dwarven standards; it was something of a shame to his line. He was too tall and lanky; even Dwalin, close to him in height, at least had thick muscles, a wide belly, and a pleasantly large nose. Thorin’s sister always told him it was the beard, most of all - though his beard was shorn in homage to those lost to the dragon, it was hard for most dwarves to look past. He was leader of the Longbeards, yet his younger sister had a finer beard than he.

Thorin jumped at a hand squeezing his bicep. “Thorin?” Bilbo looked up at him, lips pursed in concern. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, honestly, I just -”

“It is fine.” Thorin waved off his concern. “I would not be… completely truthful if I said I did not find you somewhat distracting as well.”

Thorin’s cheeks burned at the admission, though he could not regret it in the face of Bilbo’s bright smile. “Really?” the hobbit asked, waggling his brows suggestively.

The dwarf scoffed, lifting his blade into position between them. “Do not let it go to your head, Master hobbit,” he warned.

 

Thorin would later wonder if it was his own confession that was to blame. But the hobbit spent the rest of their lesson somewhat distracted, his reactions and compliances slightly delayed. Perhaps Thorin should have not pushed him, but all he could think was there was no _room_ for delay in battle. He had not been able to shake off his fluster from their earlier conversation, and thoughts of _real_ battle, of war, the stench of blood, the squelch of cleaved flesh, was almost a welcome reprieve. But it was a dangerous path, leading him to consider once again how _soft_ Bilbo was, how weak… How Eru has blessed the halfling kind with so much, yet it is taken for granted. While his people toil, starve, struggle just to make it through a season.

It was he who became distracted, enough to start landing harder blows that Bilbo struggled to parry. But as their swords clashed, all he could think of was how little _F_ _í_ _li,_ green as he was, would have had no problem.

And then Bilbo gasped, clutching his wrist as he pursed his lips.

It was enough to pull Thorin from his trance, belatedly realizing his chest stuttered with exertion.  The hobbit pulled his hand away only to reveal a smear of blood. Thorin sheathed his sword immediately, marching to the hobbit’s side. “Are you hurt? Did I wound you?”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Bilbo insisted, covering the cut once more. “Let me just clean it up.”

“I must ask for your forgiveness,” Thorin said, grabbing Bilbo’s shoulder as the hobbit turned to leave.

“That won’t be necessary,” Bilbo said, rolling his eyes. “Perhaps next time you may keep in mind I am only a beginner, after all, and not wield your sword like I’m some goblin mercenary!”

Thorin recoiled. “Of course,” he spat as Bilbo walked back to his home. “You are weak and small and know nothing but the kindness of your neighbours and the soft comforts of your home!”  
The hobbit spun around, his gaping mouth quickly pulling into scowl. “Thorin, need I remind you that I am _paying_ for these lessons? The cut I can forgive easily, but your insults will not be tolerated!”   
Thorin plucked his coat off the ground and threw it over his shoulders. “I do not need your charity! Find another dwarf who is desperate and starving, and willing to keep you company in exchange for coin!” As he charged toward the gate, he muttered under his breath, “There are _plenty.”_

“Master Dwarf!” Bilbo called at his back. “You cannot speak to me this way! I have half a mind to take you over my knee like a misbehaving faunt!”

Thorin growled, ripping open the gate. The solid bang of wood slamming into wood was satisfying. “Do not speak to me as if I am a child!” he shouted. “I was soaking my axe in the blood of my enemies before your parents could even walk!”

He did not hear Bilbo’s retort. He was not even sure there was one.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to post the final chapter early :) Thanks to everyone who has read, hit kudos, and commented. It's been a blast, bagginshield fandom, but I'm going to be devoting my ao3 and tumblr to a new fandom from now on :)  
> Let me know what you think of the ending!

It was not the first “spat” they had had, as Bilbo called them. But it was the first morning to follow that there was not a basket of food waiting outside the forge. Instead, he delved into his work; where once he would have been glad for so many orders to be filled, he found himself drained in a way that had nothing to do with the determined swing of his hammer.

Lunch silently passed, as did afternoon tea. His stomach grumbled in protest, like a pathetic creature conditioned to the whims of a hobbit’s appetite.

The inhabitants of the Shire seemed routinely shocked whenever he had gone down to the nearby river to bathe, so he had taken to doing so in the night. He stripped down, scrubbing his skin raw in the icy water and bashing his sodden clothes against the rocks lining the shore. He took his time untwining his braids and massaging his scalp. As he emerged from the waters, he unraveled the tin can holding what precious little hair oil he had left. 

Oiling his hair and re-tying his braids was a ritual to Thorin, as it was to many dwarves. As he dragged a worn wooden comb through his long hair, mangled teeth snagging on the tangles, he finally felt his thoughts calm. He allowed himself to indulge in reminiscence, of times when a softer, gentler hand would work through the kinks of hair, when the oil was lightly scented and in enough surplus to fully treat his hair.

When his mind drifted to thoughts of Bilbo, as it inevitably, damnably did, the anger of earlier had passed. In its place was a deep guilt that made him shamed to dare think of his mother, of happy times, since he had brought such disgrace to his family’s honour. It was no way to treat a paying customer, much less someone who -- Thorin did not know what to call him, what to call  _ them. _ Friend seemed… inadequate. It did not encompass Bilbo’s oft-lingering, heated gaze or the way Thorin’s chest suffused with heat at being the recipient of such a stare.

He did know that whatever may have been between them, that intangible thread pulled taut by Thorin’s mercurial outlashes, was in threat of snapping altogether. And if Thorin had any hope of repairs, he would have to come clean. About  _ everything. _

It was not a comforting thought.

 

Despite the firm script he had practiced on his trek up Bagshot row, Thorin spent a good hour pacing down the road. He would barely pause at the gate to Bag End before storming away, only to come back once again. He had left at first light, so his hair and clothes were still fresh from last night. He had even donned the gold cloak pin Bilbo had gifted him so many moons ago, which had sat untouched and carefully wrapped since his first night entering the hobbit’s hole.

His heavy boots had no doubt left permanent markings in the ground when the door swung open and Bilbo stood at the entrance, arms crossed over his robe-covered chest.

“Well,” he said in lieu of greeting. “Come along, then.” He turned back inside, leaving the door wide open.

Thorin trudged up the steps, feeling thoroughly like a defiant dwarfling sentenced to a hearty tongue-lashing and cuffing. As he ripped off his boots and hung his cloak, a warm, fresh scent wafted in from the kitchens, tempting his empty stomach. It was all painfully reminiscent of his first time here, the first of many misunderstandings between them.

He wondered if it was simply impossible to maintain a relationship, platonic or amorous or anywhere in between, with a member outside one’s race. But a niggling inner voice, sounding suspiciously like Dís, insisted his own misgivings and secret-keeping were to blame.

Thorin took a hesitant seat at the dining table, frowning at the place-setting for two. Bilbo emerged from the kitchens, small arms easily balancing heavy trays of food. At the dwarf’s questioning look, Bilbo scoffed loudly.

“You were out there so long, Hamfast came over to chat with me. We had a wager on what you’d do. I lost, by the way.” He did not sound too upset; it was a small sign, but it helped Thorin release some of the tension in his shoulders. “We have many things to discuss. Of course, if Old Took taught me one thing, it was that nothing good gets done on an empty stomach.” With that, he shoved a plate of food under the dwarf’s nose.

Thorin ate faster than what could be considered polite, and soon they were both pushing their empty plates away. Bilbo stood, beckoning his guest to follow. “We can worry about those later.”

He followed the hobbit outside once more, the two settling on a bench. As Bilbo pulled out and packed a pipe, Thorin wet his lips nervously.

“I have not been completely honest with you,” he began uncertainly.

Bilbo silently puffed on his pipe.

“I have not been fair in my treatment of you. But I, my  _ people _ \-- we have suffered much at the hands of others. It has been hard to trust.” He turned to his companion, watching Bilbo’s cheeks puff then hollow as he blew out his smoke. The hobbit faced him, slowly, as his eyes were glued to the skyline. He looked up at Thorin, lips pursed tightly. “I trust you, Bilbo,” Thorin confessed softly.

The hobbit’s lips quirked to the side, disbelieving.

Thorin’s fingers twitched to pull out his own pipe, but he could draw no comfort. Not while recounting his people’s history. “There has long been a strain of madness in my family. My grandfather, king of Erebor -”

Bilbo released a little squeak of surprise, shooting Thorin a stunned look before clearing his throat. “Right, continue on.”

It felt more like a confession than a recounting, but it was unburdening all the same. Bilbo stayed silent, puffing on his pipe, at times fidgeting in his seat or scowling at the ground. When Thorin stumbled over his words, recalling the sight of his little brother’s body, crumbled and bloodied and so  _ small _ \-- the hobbit reached out, fingers entwining with Thorin’s, which had been attempting to split the bench in two. He refused to let go from then on, even when Thorin disclosed his secret kingship and his need to return to his people.

When he was done, it was like a string of tension was cut; he slumped forward, an elbow resting on his knee (his other arm remained canted toward Bilbo, for fear that any movement would cause the hobbit to withdraw his hand), a curtain of hair falling between them as his head bowed.

There was a squeeze to their joint hands, then Bilbo softly spoke. “I don’t underestimate the weight of what you’ve just told me, Thorin. I won’t tell a soul. And I appreciate, more than I can say, that you trust me with this.”

Thorin straightened before asking, “Do you - may I ask for your forgiveness?”

Bilbo’s nose scrunched up, as if he had to ponder what the dwarf could possibly mean. “Oh, tosh,” he muttered, waving the question away. “I think we’re past that, now.”

Thorin scratched a hand through his beard. “You do not mind that I am king?” he asked.

“Well, we don’t actually have kings here in the Shire, so I’ll admit the term does not carry much value to me,” he explained. Chuckling dryly, he added, “Much better than you confessing you have a family back home, which I was  _ actually _ expecting.”

Thorin frowned at the hobbit. “I… do have a family back home,” he said slowly. “I just spoke of them, Dís and her -”

Bilbo chuckled, free hand reaching out to pat Thorin’s arm. “Not what I meant, honey,” he whispered.

The endearment had Thorin’s cheeks heating, but he did not bother to hide a small, pleased smile. Bilbo’s returning smile was much wider, more open. Lifting their joined hands, he pressed a kiss to Thorin’s knuckles. The dwarf’s jaw dropped, only to snap shut at the sensation of warm, soft skin dragging against his rough knuckles.

“You know,” Bilbo murmured as he pulled away, lips curving into a smirk. “The farmers have had a plentiful harvest this year, even more so than usual.”

Thorin’s voice caught in his throat as he said, somewhat strained, “That is glad news for your people.”

“I had my uncle over for tea the other day. He’s the Thain, you see, and normally a few hobbits load up wagons and sell the surplus to the men and other folk in Bree. But he thinks there is far too much to sell to Bree alone.”

“What are you saying, Bilbo?” Thorin prodded quietly.

“Why don’t we simply trade with your people, in Ered Luin? I’m sure they would be willing to make the trip here themselves, so we can sell the food at a lesser rate. And Thorin, I don’t mean for just this month!” the hobbit exclaimed before Thorin could respond. “Imagine it - we could establish a trade route! Every month, a group of dwarves could come to pick up food. They could even come to sell their own wares, I mean your work has become rather appreciated here. I know it may not be enough, but -”

Thorin surged forward, mashing his lips against Bilbo’s. Bilbo released his grip on Thorin’s hand, and the dwarf was about to pull back, horrified by his actions, when the hobbit’s arms settled around his shoulders and pulled him closer. Bilbo tilted his head, mouth pliant and soft under Thorin’s inexperienced grappling. He lifted a hand, hesitant, finger weaving into Bilbo’s silky curls.

“What was that for?” Bilbo gasped when he finally pulled away, their foreheads knocking together.

“It is no coincidence I met you, Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin said, hand withdrawing from Bilbo’s curls to stroke his flushed cheek. “Truly Mahal has sent me to you, khajmel. I can deny it no longer.”

 

Setting up a trade deal with the Thain was no hardship, but the rules of etiquette Bilbo had grilled him on before their meeting almost broke Thorin.  _ Make sure you compliment Fortinbras on the garden outside  _ before _ we enter the smial, he’ll want to show you each and every plant. And insist on helping Lalia with the tea, even though she’ll say no. And this probably won’t be an issue, but don’t leave a single crumb on your plate! Asking for seconds and thirds is seen as a compliment. If Fortinbras decides to act like a complete tool, which I really doubt he will, but just in case, a swift kick to the shins will right him. Not from you; I doubt those delicate little toes could bend a blade of grass! No, leave that to me… _

Despite Bilbo’s anxious preparations, the meeting went well, as far as Thorin could tell. Bilbo had said if the dwarf said something inopportune, he would jump in with a comment of “What lovely weather we are having!” Thankfully, there were no mentions of today’s clear skies; instead, Thorin walked away with a signed contract  _ (“We don’t really do that sort of thing,” Fortinbras had said with a furrowed brow. Thorin’s fist had clenched against his thigh as he thought of those who had betrayed him before, of how a piece of paper truly meant nothing against a leader’s stubborn will, but it was better than  _ nothing. _ Bilbo had likely noticed, and gently persisted until Fortinbras agreed). _

Thorin would send word of the newly established trade agreement; a cavalry of warriors would arrive first, to plot out the best route from Ered Luin to Eriador. Thorin would return with them, if only temporarily, to oversee the proper distribution of food.

Bilbo stretched beside him as they slowly made their way back to Bag End. “That went brilliantly!” he exclaimed.

Thorin nodded in return, mind still grappling with what this meant for his people. They fell in silence for a few steps. Bilbo sighed, then cleared throat, hands twisting together. He cleared his throat again.

“I was just thinking…” he trailed off, uncharacteristically stilted. “I mean, we can pickle and preserve what foods won’t last the trip, but nothing beats  _ fresh, _ right? And while we don’t have any mountains here, I’m sure they have soil, yes? At the bottom of course, and in the ground all around, what a silly question. Anyway!” The hobbit threw his hands up, chuckling nervously. “Someone should really come with you, to test the climate and see what crops will work best there. And oversee the proper trading between our peoples and, well, just be a hobbit delegator and such.”

“The wilderness is no place for a hobbit,” Thorin stated.

Bilbo huffed, arms crossing before his chest. “Yes, I’ve been informed of such. But surely there is a way to remedy that? With more sparring lessons, perhaps.”

Thorin stroked his beard thoughtfully. “It will take much gruelling training to prepare one before the first group of dwarves arrive.”

“Well, with the proper teacher, I’m sure that wouldn’t be a problem,” Bilbo insisted.

Thorin stopped abruptly, causing the hobbit to turn around and stare at him quizzically. “Bilbo?”

The hobbit licked his lips, hands clasped carefully behind his straightening back. “Yes?”

“Would you accompany me to Ered Luin?”

He groaned, surging forward to lightly slap Thorin’s arm before pulling him into a tight hug. “I thought you’d never ask, you utter git.”

Thorin chucked, pressing his cheek to the greying curls at Bilbo’s forehead. The hobbit leaned back slightly, their nose bumping together before he tilted his head and pushed up onto his toes. Simultaneously tugging Thorin’s head down, their lips pressed together in a gentle kiss.

“What will they think of me?” Bilbo asked as he pulled away. He smiled shyly as his hand settled against Thorin’s palm. “Of… us?”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed. “They will love you, or I will have their heads.”

Bilbo blinked, startled by Thorin’s deadly tone, before bursting into laughter. “I’m serious, Thorin!” he wheezed.

Thorin smiled, squeezing Bilbo’s hand reassuringly. “You have nothing to fear.” 


End file.
